Made abalone porridge this morning because I fucking wanted to.
Toast minced ginger and garlic paper thin in sesame oil and add rice that has been soaking for days.
Add water and a bit of clam stock, and cook slowly, moving continuously, waiting patiently.
Then fold in some pounded thinly sliced Santa Barbara abalone and finish with roasted sesame seeds, soy sauce, roasted sesame oil, and a raw egg.
Because I fucking care.
I think I must have been a peasant in my past Dynasty or Medieval times, because I love simple food- hoofs and snouts. Roots and tubers.
We called it porridge at the three bears’ home. Sometimes it’s called gruel. Congee in China. Jook in Korea. Arroz con pollo in El Salvador.
It’s like religion sometimes. We call it different things but it’s all the same fucking thing. It’s how we eat. No need to personify God or fight over deities. God may not even be a human form, don’t know why we still believe that to be true.
It’s quite silly and selfish.
No need to call this anything but a bowl of goodness, wherever it may be from.